


Celeritas

by dicks



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Drama, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-21
Updated: 2016-06-21
Packaged: 2018-07-16 11:21:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7266070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dicks/pseuds/dicks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He slowly descends into madness</p>
            </blockquote>





	Celeritas

  
_Hydrofluoric acid_  
  
I hum La Danza under my breath.   
  
_Uranium oxide  
_  
I mix the two substances together in a hard plastic case. Shit, it’s too fucking small. A quick mental note; get a bigger case next time, assuming there _is_ next time in the future.  
  
I shift. Flip through my notes, my sloppy scrawling is all over the pages. I wrote on every single available space on the page. Save the trees, recycle, whatever. It’s humanity that needs saving. But then again, that’s not my fucking problem.  
  
 _Convert uranium tetrafluoride to uranium hexafluorid—_  
  
I blink at the words, sometimes I can’t even read my own handwriting, long-hands, short-hands, self-invented codes; sentences jumbled together.   
  
_Separate out the isotope U-235 from U-238._  
  
I release a deep breath and rub my temples. Invisible hands creep from the base of my neck to the back of my head, squeezing my skull in throbbing madness, paranoia eating my brain; a product of sheer exhaustion and lack of sleep.  
  
I close my notebook and light a cigarette. I need fluorine for the next step.  
  
-  
  
“What are you doing?” Yamamoto slips on the seat in front of me. His loud voice echoes in the empty lab. He places two cups of coffee gently on the table, succeeding in not spilling even a drop. He has been my coffee-bearer for almost every morning for the past few weeks, and almost every morning without fail I told him how much his coffee sucks.  
  
“I’m converting uranium tetrafluoride to hexafluoride form so I can separate the isotope.” I say, pushing aside my notes and paperwork. The last time he managed to spill his coffee on my notes, I almost ended up killing him with a brand-new specimen jar.   
  
Yamamoto licks his lips before sipping on his coffee, “Umm yeah..,” a pause, “Why?”  
  
I don’t have to answer but I am compelled to brag, “This shit I’m making, the impact would be stronger than an atomic explosion.”  
  
“You’re joking right?” for a moment he forgets to smile, his main defence mechanism malfunctioning.  
  
I glance at him and he is still watching me with the little innocence that is left in him. I contemplate; I can tell him the truth, I can tell him my plan to invalidate Millefiore base and erase everything in between into non-existence. But then, the less Yamamoto knows, the more chances of fucking up I can avoid.  
  
“Idiot,” I say, taking a sip of the scalding hot coffee. I burn my tongue. “Of course I was joking.”   
  
Yamamoto leans back and rubs at the back of his head, laughing.   
  
Oh yes. I’m fucking hilarious. I’m a fucking comedian.  
  
I scowl and grumble and silently hope that he will never change.  
  
-  
  
The family is scattered around, all of us. Yamamoto is doing what Yamamoto does best, still smiling like an idiot, except his smiles are no longer as gullible as before. I have to admit sometimes I _do_ envy at his ability to laugh off at everything just because it’s convenient. I haven’t seen Hibird frolicking around the base for quite some time and Hibari is probably brooding somewhere in the dark. Bianchi and the rest of the girls haven’t been in the base recently and I don’t particularly care, Lawnhead is getting married soon; well, least one of us is considerably normal.  
  
Stop. Fast forward. Play. I wish I had the remote control of the universe.  
  
Lately, this lab has become my sanctuary. I haven’t been out of the base for weeks. The farthest journey I allow myself to travel is between the lab and my room right at the end of the hall. I see less and less of everyone, distancing myself from reality, as I lock myself in this room. I am my own captive; I listen to my own breathing, I watch my self in the dark, I calculate my every move. I am a ghost of my own creation.  
  
I place my pen on the table. I have to stop doodling on the paper like a child.  
  
For the first few weeks after Tenth died, they took their turns checking up on me, asking if I was okay, but expecting that I was not. God, I hated the way they searched my face looking for the slightest sign that I might crack, as if waiting for me to shove my head into the gas oven. For fuck’s sake, all I wanted was to be left alone, really, was that too much to ask?  
  
 _How do you feel? When the last time you eat? Do you sleep well? Did you sleep at all?  
  
Do you need anything?  
  
— fine, no, no, no, not at all, thank you, get off my back, goodbye._  
  
And no, I don’t need anything. I don’t fucking need anything. I used to look at Tenth with a great need for acceptance. But Tenth is dead. He’s dead because I failed to protect him.  
  
Because I failed to protect him.   
  
"It's not your fault," he would say. He would drape his arm on my shoulder awkwardly, because that how he was, awkward; he would say, “You all did your best,” and I would flush slightly, freeze on my spot with my hands twitching by my sides because couldn’t decide if I should hold him back and my eyes would hurt a little from blinking too much but there would be familiar warmth, there would be my fingers clutching at the hem of his shirt because I couldn’t let go.  
  
Rewind. They want to forget but I want to remember.   
  
My mind drifts back to the time before everything was over, back when we were less fucked up; banters, laughter, fireworks, hot summer nights, the smell of curry, fireworks. Tenth. God, we were so young back then. We _are_ still young, only more complicated, but still, too young to be drowning in the sea of dread and discontent.  
  
Because I failed.  
  
Pause.  
  
I accidentally knock the pen down to the floor with my elbow. My eyes follow as it rolls and keeps rolling until it reaches the feet of the cupboard. Then my gaze falls on the white and black geometric pattern on the carpet. Imaginary ants crawl to the surface through the tiny holes, swarming and pushing at each other, racing to the top.   
  
They are going to eat me.   
  
-  
  
Drips of water fall from my hair down to the floor. I wobble to my room clad only in a towel. I soaked too long; I was beginning to resemble a prune. On a positive note, at least I didn’t drown myself in the bathtub.   
  
I toss aside the towel. It drops soundlessly on the carpet.   
  
Reality check.  
  
I am standing middle of the room facing the full-length mirror, naked and aroused, completely and dreadfully alone.  
  
Sometimes I forget that I, too, _do_ desire human contact.  
  
I palm my erection with my right hand. I focus at my own reflection as I pump on my cock. The skin beneath my eyes is darker than the rest of my colourless face. My hair, still wet from the shower plastered to my skull. I think I need a haircut. I spread my legs and cup my balls with my other hand. Moans escape from my lips. I squint at the mirror. My eyes are clear but my mind is not.   
  
You lost your job, you’re still horny.  
  
You buried your grandmother the day before, you’re still horny.  
  
Your girlfriend left you for another guy, you’re still horny.  
  
You fucked up with your life upside down and you’re still fucking horny.   
  
It goes on and on. Humans are such simple but incongruous creatures. Our minds and bodies work in perplexing ways.  
  
 _Harder. Faster. Faster. Faster. Fuck. Come on. Don’t fucking stop.  
  
Please._  
  
I close my eyes and engulf myself in the momentary sense of mental tranquillity.  
  
-  
  
Three glasses of rum and 20 milligrams of Ambien later; I am still me, body and soul, with sanity barely intact. I’ve been popping the damn pills like candy for the past three weeks. Still, I can’t sleep; still, having nightmares though I’m wide awake.  
  
I walk barefoot on the cold tiles in the corridor towards Yamamoto’s room. There are no other sounds except for my harsh breathing and the quiet pitch of my footsteps. I’m a nomad. I am soaring through space on a time-travelling machine. The world is dead and everyone is asleep. And that’s what normal people do; they fucking sleep.   
  
“Hey, is something wrong?” he asks half-asleep, propping himself up with his elbows as I step deeper inside his room.  
  
“I couldn’t sleep,” I tell him resignedly, walking toward the bed. My eyes wander in the poorly-lit room searching for something comforting. I can see Yamamoto half-lying on the bed only in his boxers, he’d catch cold sleeping like that.   
  
I climb on the bed, and then on _him,_ with my legs straddling both sides of his thighs.  
  
“Gokudera?” he places his hands on my hips uncertainly.  
  
“You’re comfortable.” I say, and then rest my palms on his naked chest. His breath hitches suddenly as if the oxygen supply has been cut off from his lungs. I shut my eyes tight. I can feel his rapid heart beating against my palm. So close. So very close. I can wring his heart with my bare hands, squeezing all the juice out until what is left is a piece of barren purplish meat. But I don’t want to do that. I brush my fingers gently on his chest. Butterfly effect. Yamamoto shudders under my touch. The contact of the skin creates a massive fusion reaction. My mind strays. I think of Einstein's famous equation of energy and mass.   
_  
When atoms split, matter is converted into energy._  
  
“Gokudera?” he repeats, softly this time.  
  
I emit a mute sigh then deliberately brush my fingers on his nipple, “You fucking love me.” Blatant statement, I said it simply because it is true.  
  
“Uhh what?” he asks, clearly in shock. His eyes are wide, staring at me with something between confusion and apprehension. I stare right back at him. Our staring contest stretches for a moment in the silence of the room. I wonder warily if he looks at me long enough, he will be able to see past through the facade and spot the madness.  
  
“Yes,” he says finally, almost bashfully, “I love you.”  
  
 _Energy equals mass multiplied by the speed of light squared._  
  
“And you want me,” I whisper, “I’ve been watching you watching me,” My face muscles seems to work on their own, words escape from my lips but it’s the Zolpidem in my nervous system talking, “—when you’re alone you think about kissing me, having your tongue against my skin and sliding your cock inside of me, pounding me hard to the mattress.”  
  
I pause to breath and I pinch lightly on his nipple. His groan fills out the entire room; so fucking hot, I can feel his cock hardening against my thigh. I lick my lips; I think I will let him fuck me. “Of course, you’re too much of a coward to say anything.”  
  
“Gokudera, can I—”  
  
“I treat you like shit,” I cut him off, “Why, after all these years, are you still here?” _With me_ , but I left it unsaid.  
  
His mind seems to wander before he returns with an answer, “Because Gokudera can’t live without me.”   
  
I snort. He sounded so sure of himself and I feel like punching him in the face. What an idiot. But then again, I suppose there's a certain truth in that. Perhaps he is the only thing left to keep me sane these days. Perhaps.  
  
I lean down closer to him, “Don’t flatter yourself, moron.”  
  
Yamamoto tastes like melancholy, only sweeter.   
  
-  
  
In my dream, I am wearing a baseball uniform, holding a bat, and the crowd is cheering wildly around me.   
  
In my dream, I run toward the bleachers where everyone is waiting for me.  
  
“Yamamoto—,” I mumble, running faster towards them, “Tsuna!” In my dream I call him by his name.  
  
“Gokudera-kun. Good Luck!”  
  
Yamamoto bends down and kisses me on both of my cheeks, “Hit a homerun for me, Gokudera.”  
  
“Stop molesting me in public, moron.” I say, blushing. In my dream, I smile.  
  
“You can do it Gokudera,” Tenth smiles and my eyes sting. “If anyone can, it is you.”   
  
In my dream, I feel like crying.   
  
Then I open my eyes. In reality, I am still me and Tenth is still dead.  
  
The room is very quiet.  
  
-  
  
The ashes scatter around the park. I blink a few times as the smoke gets in my eyes. I grind what is left of my notes to the ground with the back of my shoe. It is so windy today, and my ass is hurting from sitting too long on the uncomfortable bench.   
  
“What are you doing?”  
  
I glance up. Yamamoto stands ten feet away from me with both of his hands in his pocket. The sun is setting down behind him, beyond the horizon and from the distance he looks like some sort of a deity, the idiot kind.   
  
I take a long drag of my cigarette, “I’m waiting.”  
  
He takes a few steps closer, “Waiting for what?”  
  
“Nothing.”  
  
The wind blows gently, bringing my hair down onto my face. Few strands stuck on my lips and I push it away. I look up at the sky. If Tenth is watching me from the above, would he still be smiling?  
  
“Well—,” Yamamoto says as he settles down next to me, “I’ll wait with you then.”   
  
We both wait for nothing in comfortable silence.  
  
-


End file.
